


A Collection of Magical One Shots

by xchasingmoonlightx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xchasingmoonlightx/pseuds/xchasingmoonlightx
Summary: Just a simple collection of one shots of various subjects. Topics will vary from one chapter to the next, and there will not be a linear storyline.There is no update schedule for this. I'll just add new things as inspiration strikes me.Want to collaborate? Send me a DM with your idea and let's write something together.Trigger/Content warnings will be posted at the start of each story.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. That Blond Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Title: That Blond Boy
> 
> Characters/Pairings: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
> 
> TW/CW: cursing, alcohol use, sad ending.
> 
> Rating: Teen
> 
> A prompt submitted by @hvrmalfoy on Twitter, "I want a dramione fanfic from Ron's POV so I can listen to 'Driver's License' and cry about it."

As completely _fucked_ as it was to admit, the best weeks of Ronald Weasley's life were the ones that led up to the war.

Sure, they were simultaneously nerve-wracking and troublesome to say the least- but in those final weeks after he, Harry, and Hermione had rejoined into their trio, it felt as if he had it all. He was embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. He was spending valuable time with his best friends. He was rising above anyone and everyone who'd ever said he wouldn't amount to anything. To everyone that underestimated him. To everyone that said he was _'just another Weasley.'_

He was finally getting the girl.

Not a single night passed since the Battle of Hogwarts where he hadn't tossed and turned and thought of all the things he wished he'd done differently.

Conjuring every ounce of Gryffindor bravery that flowed within his bloodstream, he kissed her. He did what he'd been dying to do for years, and he kissed her in front of everyone they knew. Everyone that had survived.

And not a moment went by that he didn't regret it.

It had been their downfall. It was too little, too late. And he wasn't sure what the worst part was- that he'd waited so long? That he'd flaunted an ill-fated relationship with one of their housemates? Or was it that he, in retrospect, chose the _worst_ possible time and place to finally muster the gumption to do it: after a decades-long standoff between good and evil among a sea of their dead friends and family?

After twelve weeks of an incredibly awkward and strained post-war romance where he desperately, _tirelessly,_ tried to make the pieces fit, Hermione took the initiative to give their relationship a mercy kill. She vehemently insisted that he'd done nothing wrong, that they had all been so negatively effected by the war that none of the survivors were mentally suited to handle such a commitment so closely on the heels of an event where they narrowly escaped with their lives.

But it was bullshit. It was _all_ bullshit! And she knew it, too!

If no one was ready, why had Harry and Ginny gotten engaged only two months ago? Why had Dean and Seamus already gotten a flat together? Why had Luna and Neville already gone on a month long vacation to the far East together?

To say that he had a negative reaction would have been an understatement. What started as a conversation that Hermione had tried to cultivate from kindness in an attempt to save their friendship had quickly devolved into shouting, tears, arguing, and hoarse voices. And he'd done what he always did: Accused her of leaving him for someone. Told her that she thought she was too good for him now. Called her names like _'insufferable know-it-all'_ and _'impossible to get along with.'_

But rather than falling into their old routine of screaming at each other until they were blue in the face, she simply straightened and walked out the door.

Ron practically chased after her from the Burrow that day. The red tint to his cheeks from his explosive anger lent themselves to a torrential downfall of hot, salty tears. An amount of tears that could have rivaled how many he'd shed when Fred died. The only thing that kept him truly _running_ after her was George and Harry tackling him to the ground, and Molly shouting at them from the threshold.

"Let her go," George was despondent in the way he passed the advice onto his younger brother as they yanked him up from the grass by the shirt collar. Once they'd retrieved him from the ground and the pop of apparition punctuated Hermione's leave, George let out another heavy sigh. "You've got to let her go."

That was the first night he went out to a pub since the war.

For the first two weeks after their breakup, Hermione was consistent in either sending Ron a letter by owl, or even chatting by Floo on a near-daily basis. Initially, it was like rubbing salt into a wound to talk to her so closely following their split, but by the end of the those two weeks, it was... nice. Warm. And even though the following month saw less correspondence from her end, he was starting to feel like their friendship yet had hope to be saved. 

  
Until he got too close, too comfortable one night over the Floo.

It had been nearly five weeks since her last letter. When she didn't respond to the first one, he simply assumed that it had gotten lost in the post. So he sent another, and when _that_ one got lost, he sent it again by owl. Much to his relief, she sent one back. A simple, two-worded question that made his stomach flip:

_Floo tonight?_

  
Ronald felt like he was a boy again. He took a shower, combed his hair, had his mum iron him a shirt to wear, and he'd even put on some of Charlie's cologne even though she wouldn't be able to smell him through the Floo call.

To him, it was as if nothing had ever changed, and _Godric,_ she was as gorgeous as ever. That night, he vowed with himself to turn a new leaf. To let her talk. He missed her, and he wanted nothing more than to listen as if it'd be his last time- the main points of conversation were that she'd begun earning a Potion's Mastery and that she'd move to Wiltshire.

He wasn't surprised by her pursuit of further education, and the subject of potions was even less surprising seeing as it had been one of her strongest subjects in school. However, moving to Wiltshire was a strange choice. She'd never mentioned wanting to move anywhere. In fact, after the war when Ron asked if she wanted to come live with them in the Burrow, she said she didn't want to, that she liked where she was in Hampstead and how it would be easy for her to take classes in London if she decided she wanted to pursue a degree at a muggle school.

Despite her refusal at the invitation to move in with him - which had, of course, been yet another point of contention - he wasn't going to complain! Actually, he'd be rejoicing because Wiltshire was even closer to the Burrow than Hampstead was, which would make it easier to see her by apparition and even muggle transportation if that's what she chose.

"I miss you, 'Mione," he whispered to her image in his fireplace with a lopsided smile. He wished for nothing more than to give her a hug, to hold her, to tell her how much she meant to him and how sorry he was for acting like a hippogriff's arse. "When can I see you again? I bet Harry even misses you like mad, too."

She blinked at the question, her shoulders slightly deflating in unison to her eyebrows knitting together. It had been a series of movements that ended just as quickly as they had started, and with Ron not being particularly keen on details, he'd missed the wavering disposition altogether.

She took a deep breath, disguising it as a yawn before allowing a thin smile to stretch across her face- one that didn't touch her eyes or highlight the dusting of enchanting freckles on her cheeks that looked like fairy kisses. "That's actually why I wanted to speak with you tonight, Ron."

His pink ears perked up as he leaned forward in his seat, waiting with bated breath, anxiously anticipating what she was about to say. Ever since she picked up the Floo call, he'd been hyping himself up to ask her on a proper date before they hung up, and he was excited that this could be the opportunity.

"Your mum and Ginny invited me to join you all for Sunday dinner," she chuckled nervously, looking down into her lap. "I told them that-"

He sprung up from the old recliner in the center of the room. He very well could have thrown his hands in the air and howled at the moon in celebration of how fantastic he felt. He was doing it. He was finally making things right and he was _finally_ going to get his girl.

"That's fantastic, 'Mione, really!" He beamed into the fireplace at her, feeling like a schoolboy again. "I can't tell you how excited I am for us to be together again, really, I-"

"Ronald, there's something you should know," she quietly interrupted what most likely would have been a premature victory speech.

"What?" He responded with a sudden alarm. "Is something wrong?"

She took another slow, deep breath, not bothering to hide it with a yawn or a cough this time.

"Your mum and Ginny invited me to Sunday dinner because I was talking with Ginny and accidentally let it slip that I've been talking to someone."

He was stunned to silence, and after what had become an uncomfortable suspension in the air, she continued.

"But it's someone that all of you already know. Ginny had her reservations at first, but your mum believed me when I said that he'd changed. That he saw the error of his ways and he wanted to set things right." She paused and sighed. "Now, I really think you should know-"

"W-who-" Ron felt the color drain from his face and he was hardly capable of choking out the words. He wasn't sure what part of her statement that he felt the need to be the most shaken by, but it wasn't an incorrect observation to say that his jovial mask was slipping. "Who is it...?"

"Ron, I don't think I should say, because I want you to give him a fair chance. I think you should wait until Sunday before you-"

_"WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS IT, HERMIONE?!"_

She didn't show for Sunday dinner.

♤

  
The following year seemed to rush by and move in slow motion all at once. It was like a sick fucking joke that made him feel like more of a punchline with each passing day; George got back in touch with Angelina Johnson, Harry and Ginny were getting down to the nitty-gritty of planning their wedding, and Ron had lost contact with Hermione entirely.

Molly was the most cross with Ron that she'd ever been in his entire life in the weeks following his last Floo conversation with Hermione. She had reached out to any of them for months afterwards, and Ginny was the most expressive in her disdain for Ron straining their friendship. Hermione was the closest thing that Ginny had to a sister and she resented him for screwing it up. Molly was of the same mind, sad that she had essentially lost a daughter.

In the last four months, Ginny had managed to put the pieces back together with her old friend. They never met up at the Burrow, and they never talked by Floo- Ron was sure of that much because he always kept an ear out when he heard his little sister about to make a call. His ex-girlfriend had become something of an enigma. He saw the envelopes that his mum, Ginny, and sometimes even George received in the mail from her, and there were times when he overheard the three of them in the kitchen boasting about her; but it never took long for them to change subjects when he'd made his presence in the room known.

On a chilly Tuesday night in October, Molly was in the kitchen preparing dinner for the family when a massive beast of a brown and white Eagle Owl came swooping down in front of their window before starting an incessant assault against the glass with it's beak.

Ron sat perched on the edge of one of the dining chairs as he watched his mum's eyes dart around the room for a towel to wipe her hands on.

"Oh, they must all be in the wash," she muttered to herself in a lamenting tone, spinning around the room again just to make sure. "Ron, dear, could you please get that for me?"

Before Ron could give an affirmative response, his mum was shouting toward the upper levels of the house, calling for Ginny, George, and Arthur to come down.

Ron cautiously approached the kitchen window, pushing it open slowly for fear of the monster of a bird attacking his finger. If his beak or his claws were half as hostile as his piercing orange eyes, he knew that a trip to Saint Mungo's would be in the cards for him.

The owl had a white envelope tied to it's ankle, attached by an ivory-colored silk ribbon. Ron pulled at one of the ends of the ribbon to loosen it from the bird's foot, and just as he got a firm grasp on the envelope, a powerful gust of wind fanned his face and sent a few loose recipes that had been sitting on the kitchen counter fluttering through the air as the owl took his leave.

"What the bloody hell-" Ron mumbled as his gaze followed the owl past the horizon. When he heard his dad and siblings step into the kitchen, Ginny's eyes widened the moment they settled on the envelope.

Ron raised an eyebrow at her. "You'd think you've never seen the sodding post befo-" but at that exact moment, he'd glanced down at the piece of mail in question.

The envelope was thick, made from heavy, durable paper that was as white as snow. On the front, written in silver ink, it was addressed to _'The Weasley Family,'_ and on the back, a single sprig of gysophila was stamped against the flap, secured with a silver wax seal.

The crest of the seal was unmistakable. A coat of arms with symmetrical dragons on each side, guarding a massive _'M'_ written using calligraphy- all of it framed by a banner at the bottom which bore their motto: _"Purity Will Always Conquer."_

He felt like he was going to be sick.

♤

If someone had asked Ronald Weasley before the war if he ever saw himself returning to Malfoy Manor, he probably would have suffered from a massive fit of laughter. 

If someone had told that same Ronald Weasley that he'd be attending a _wedding_ at Malfoy Manor eighteen months later, he would have thought it was a cruel, disgusting joke. 

If someone told him that it would be the wedding between his childhood enemy that wished death upon muggleborns, and his childhood sweetheart, his first and only love who happened to be a muggleborn... 

There wasn't a combination of words in any language on Earth to accurately convey the dread he felt when he, his family, and Harry had all arrived to the sprawling mansion that day. 

Every single one of them had been shocked when Ron agreed to join them. Why would he? Why would _any_ sane man want to watch the love of his life marry another man? _Especially_ if that was the same man that _actively_ aided in a regime whose goals were to end her life and the lives of people just like her. 

Receiving the invitation was a punch to the gut, but showing up to the very location where the love of his life had been tortured by a psycopathic, unhinged Death Eater felt like the ultimate betrayal. 

Taking his seat with his family in one of the back rows next to the aisle was agonizing. 

Seeing Harry and Ginny's faces light up when the music swelled was tormenting.

Seeing her walk down the aisle, somehow looking more beautiful than he'd ever remembered was excruciating.

But the worst part...

The worst part of it was seeing the way she looked at him when they joined hands at the altar. 

That... that was the moment he felt himself die inside. 

It was like he felt his own sanity slipping. He felt every surface of his skin turn cold, and when the officiant asked if anyone objected to their union, he couldn't find his voice. And even if... even if he had full control of his vocal chords... he wasn't sure he'd say anything anyhow. 

Seeing her face, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she looked at him. It was the most damning thing he'd ever seen. 

Ron knew that Hermione and himself weren't a perfect match, and, maybe it was selfish of him, but... whenever he looked into her eyes, the same exact way that she was looking into Malfoy's eyes in that moment, he'd never felt that way for anyone before. 

In the span of Hermione and Malfoy's thirty minute ceremony, Ron racked his brain and played the last two years on repeat, desperately searching for the exact fault of his that became their undoing. How? How had she become so... so _okay?_ Okay enough to move on and... marry the fucking enemy?

_"...and I now pronounce_ _you_ _husband and wife! You may kiss_ _your_ _bride..."_

As the crowd cheered around him for their first kiss as husband and wife, Ron kept his eyes glued to the ground. He couldn't bring himself to see them. To see anyone.

To see _her_. 

He still wanted her. He'd _always_ wanted her. He wanted a lifetime, a marriage, a family. He wanted forever. He wanted eternity. 

But it wasn't enough. _He_ wasn't enough. He was _never_ _. bloody._ _enough_ _._ for her. 

And the only one to blame was himself. 


	2. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Morning After
> 
> Characters/Pairings: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
> 
> TW/CW: NSFW artwork, reference to sexual content. 
> 
> Rating: Mature
> 
> Summary:  
> Just a little flash fic inspired by a truly divine piece of art by UpTheHillNSFW on Pillowfort. Posted following the guidelines of their FAQ section. (<600 words)
> 
> https://www.pillowfort.social/upthehillnsfw

****

During the first year of their relationship, like any couple, they would have told you that the best part was the sex. 

It was rough and loud and hot and frequent– they felt as though they'd never grow tired of each other; they'd never stop exploring one another's bodies and she'd never cease to be amazed at how his slightest touches managed to set her skin aflame.

It only seemed to be the natural progression of things when the sex slowed down– it became less about quantity and more about quality, and while they were always happy to explore any unquenched desires or fantasies, _especially Draco,_ the hasty ravishing of one another slowed into something more passionate. 

Languid. Intimate. 

And while there was no shortage of fresh, red trails down his back from where Hermione's nails had dug in, they weren't the results of a frantic, brazen encounter. Instead, they'd been born from tender, deliberate rolls of hips and caresses of tongues and lips against each other's contours. 

It had taken a full year for their first admission of love for one another. A year of arguments, sex, and battles of wits. A year of kisses and comforting holds when the nightmares of previous years haunted their minds. Through it all, the final breaking point that forced them to admit their love for one another came in the form of a particularly bad verbal spar, and yet, they couldn't seem to remember what it had been about in the first place. 

During their first year together, sex seemed like it was the reason that so many people chose to stay tethered to this world when times were tough. It was the solution to everything– feelings of romance, anger, stress, happiness. To either of them, an orgasm was the best feeling in the world.

But when they woke up together on a lazy Sunday morning the day after they'd finally said they loved one another, they discovered just how wrong they'd been.

The best feeling in the world wasn't sex. No– it's the morning after sex. It's when your skin is bruised from soft bites and harsh kisses, or when your muscles are sore from overexertion, and when you wake up in the warm, safe arms of your lover. 

It's discovering the way their hair looks wild and untamed first thing in the morning, and watching how the rays of sunlight dance across their skin when it peeks through the cracks in the curtains.

It's the way his voice was thick with sleep when he greeted her a good morning by pulling her closer, mumbling her name as if it was a prayer and she wasn't even sure if he'd even been fully awake yet– and when she discovered that he was still asleep, her heart beamed because that meant he'd been dreaming about her.

The best feeling in the world wasn't one that had to be made, or cultivated, or coaxed forward with a snap of the hips or the firmness of a touch. 

It was waking up to swim into each other's eyes. To trace her fingers down his arms and leave goosebumps in their wake. To kiss and hold and breath life and love and hope into each other. 

The best feeling in the world wasn't sex, and perhaps it wasn't even the morning after. 

It was warmth. It was safety. It was companionship. 

It was love.


End file.
